For One Night
by thepapayagirl
Summary: And one night only? Well, we all know Booth's not fond of one night stands; B/B, the morning after the drunken night before. And the morning after that. And the morning after that...


**For One Night**

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"This really isn't a good idea, Booth," slurred Brennan drunkenly. "I need to be at work in..." She checked her watch, her eyebrows crinkling as she realised she had become so inebriated that she couldn't do the simple mathematical calculation required to determine how many hours stood between midnight and 8am. "I'm drunk. My brain's not working," she announced, comically serious. Loud music blasted out from the pub's crappy sound system, somehow not obliterating their conversation, merely hiding it from outside ears. Making it private.

"C'mon, Bones. One more drink? You deserve it," Booth assured her.

"I deserve to come out and... get _pissed_ with you because I did my job?" she giggled, sweeping her hair out of her eyes and setting her glass firmly down on the bar. "I need to go to bed and, apparently, so do you," she accused him lightly, noticing the huge yawn contorting his face as she hopped off her stool.

"Hello, hangover," laughed Booth, stretching out an arm to steady her. She stumbled and emitted a small squeak, realising that she was possibly a little more drunk than she had previously thought.

"Nice catch," she mumbled almost unintelligibly, plopping back down onto her seat.

"You're the nice catch," he remarked innocently.

"I'm going to ignore that while I still have my judgement, because I think you lost yours about two hours ago," she retorted, poking him playfully on the nose.

"You do know we've only been here three hours? Is it actually possibly to get pissed enough to lose all inhibitions in just one hour?" he asked mischievously.

"I really wouldn't know," lied Brennan, chuckling as she slipped carefully down off the stool to retrieve the key that had fallen from her loose grasp to the cold, dusty floor. She sighed frustratedly as the key refused to be picked up, slipping and sliding beneath her scrambling fingers and somehow evading her bitten nails. Booth laughed from above as she eventually managed to pick up the key and promptly dropped it again. Rather than frowning as she normally would have done in such a situation, she found herself indulging in a fit of giggles as she finally recaptured the key.

"Ah, Bones. I haven't had this much fun in months," sighed Booth happily. Brennan obligingly smiled back, using his knee as a handhold to wrench herself upright once again. She winced loudly as her head collided sharply with the underside of the hard, wooden counter, not sure whether to laugh or cry.

"I hit my head," she stated matter-of-factly, tears almost springing to her eyes. Booth made a sympathetic groaning sound and patted her hair gently as another yawn quietly rolled through him.

"Kiss it better," he murmured, bending to plant a soft kiss on top of her head. To her dismay, she felt goosebumps rippling along her bare arms; she was pretty sure it wasn't the cold having an effect on her.

"Booth, you're sat on my jacket. I'm getting cold," she mumbled, realising even as she spoke that she really didn't want him to listen.

"I can warm you up," he offered sleepily, pulling her into his arms. She rested her head on his shoulder gratefully, then tilted her face upwards hesitantly, unsure of what to expect. She found Booth looking down at her attentively, his eyes unfocused but clearly directed at her; asking permission.

She thought briefly of impaired judgement and strange things called 'consequences', but it all seemed so very far anyway. She smiled encouragingly at the eyes and straightened her neck to reach the mouth that went with them with her own, Booth's fingers tangling in her hair as their lips finally met. Mere seconds later, they broke apart, staring at each curiously.

"C'mon. Let's get out of here before you start dancing on the bar," Brennan said finally, heaving Booth off his stool and wrapping a now-warm arm around his waist. He stood easily and reciprocated her gesture. They smiled tentatively at each other and made their way out of the bar at a leisurely pace. There was no need to rush - after all, they had all night.

--

_8:30 am, The Morning After  
_

"Hi, Booth," said Brennan vaguely, continuing to examine the puzzling skeletal remains of their latest case. "You should go see Angela, she almost has a face for our victim," she suggested, deliberately not looking him in the face as he scanned his security pass and stumbled tiredly up onto the platform on which she was working.

"Hodgins, what did you say the time of death was?" she asked distractedly.

"Well, I estimate that she's been dead two to three weeks, but it all depends on... never mind," he trailed off, realising that Brennan obviously wasn't listening anyway. She seemed intent on maintaining constant eye contact with the murder victim lying on the table before her, even if the empty sockets could never return her glazed stare. Booth watched the scene unfold in disbelief, sighing exhaustedly.

"Bones, we - we need to talk," he said flatly, glaring pointedly at Hodgins. He took the hint and left, looking back at the pair worriedly as he walked away to where Angela stood with her sketchpad. The unforgiving fluorescent lighting in the lab only emphasised the black circles beneath both their eyes; something was obviously wrong.

"We do?" she asked disinterestedly. "About what?" The increasingly high pitch of her voice blew her indifferent cover immediately.

"About how we... slept together. You know, last night," he muttered, glancing discreetly around to see if anyone had overheard. Brennan was finally forced to look away from the table and at Booth.

"What's there to talk about? We don't need to talk. We were drunk. It meant nothing," she told him quietly, aware of how the unintentionally cruel words stung even herself.

"Well, the fact remains that it happened, and if this is gonna screw up our partnership, our _friendship_, then, yes, we need to talk," he insisted, all the while looking horribly embarrassed by the entire situation.

"It won't," she said shortly, returning to the bones on the table. "We're friends, Booth. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Except friends don't have _sex_!" he all but exploded.

"Booth!" said Brennan desperately, restricting her voice to a strained whisper, instinctively checking to see how many heads had turned at the revelation that the infamously platonic Dr Brennan and Agent Booth had finally got it together. She rolled her eyes; Angela looked positively thrilled. However, she had to admit that Booth looked genuinely sorry for shouting it out in front of so many people.

"I mean, _Fred_ just doesn't have any... _regrets_, Bones, there's nothing I can do," he said loudly. Brennan promptly burst into laughter. "I guess he's just not into you anymore," announced Booth, shaking his head sadly, eyes twinkling.

"I guess he's not," she choked out between giggles. "Which is a real shame, because it was great while it lasted," she informed him seriously, satisfied that everyone had looked away and was ignoring them as usual.

"Who's _Fred_, sweetie?" enquired Angela suspiciously, wandering over to them.

"Just some... random guy," shrugged Brennan. "I woke up in his bed one morning and couldn't remember how the _hell_ I got there, so I'm really not sure what's happening with him right now," she half-laughed.

"Perhaps you should ask him," suggested Booth. Brennan sent him a withering look. "Or not. Just a thought," he muttered.

"Things are weird with Fred," she informed Angela, pointedly turning her back on Booth. "I mean, God knows what happened."

"I'd rather he didn't, actually," interjected Booth. "I prefer to think he shuts his eyes and turns away during... such times."

"Well, you would. Bad boys don't get to heaven, Booth," laughed Angela.

"I'm not _bad_!" he spluttered, going bright red.

"Oh, I'm sure you're brilliant," she assured him, grinning.

"Haha, very funny," he replied sarcastically. "So, um, Bones - we _really_ need to talk. About how... Fred doesn't have regrets," he faltered, deliberately ignoring Angela's raised eyebrows.

"I'm sure Fred doesn't remember anything. I know I don't," said Brennan coldly, never taking her eyes off the partial skeleton laid out in front of her.

"I bet he does. Perhaps he remembers everything and just needs to talk about it," suggested Booth hopefully.

"You seem very _friendly_ with this Fred," noted Angela with curiosity.

"He's an old friend of mine. We're very similar," he muttered. Brennan continued to pointedly ignore him. Sighing, he shook his head and walked away, mumbling incoherently as he went.

"Am I... missing something here, Bren?" asked Angela hesitantly.

"I'm suffering from a brief spell of manepostophobia," she sighed tiredly.

"You're suffering from _what_?"

"'A fear of having done something awful while drunk'," she quoted dolefully, flopping down into the nearest chair and burying her head in her hands.

"Ah. Gotcha. The 'oh crap, it's all coming back to me now' morning-after syndrome," said Angela sympathetically, tucking a loose strand of hair neatly behind Brennan's ear. An awkward silence ensued.

"You slept with Booth, didn't you?"

Brennan made a noncommittal grunting noise and weakly nodded her head.

"Yeah." She looked up at Angela, surprised to see that the delighted grin previously plastered across her face was now gone. "Aren't you happy? I know this is is what you've always wanted," she laughed humorlessly.

"Yeah, well. Sure I'm happy, honey, but... you're not," she stated honestly.

"I guess I'm just sad that everything I do remember was completely... meaningless," she explained. "We were _drunk_, Ange. I was just so happy about finally solving that Darlington case that I let Booth persuade me to have 'just one more drink' about six times, and then I ended up stumbling out of his apartment at 6am this morning wondering what the hell happened last night!" she said frustratedly.

"That sounds familiar," joked Angela in an attempt to cheer her up. Brennan merely rolled her eyes and looked away to Booth's rapidly retreating back. "You should talk to him, sweetie. He just wants to sort things out. I mean, you two are great friends, right? You can't throw it all away on one drunken night," she said sympathetically, standing up and patting Brennan on the back before returning to constructing a face from the shattered fragments of their victim's skull.

"Ange, wait!" exclaimed Brennan, hastily jumping up from her chair and jogging after her. "Ange, what the hell am I meant so say to him?" she asked nervously, her eyes imploring Angela to help her somewhat socially stunted best friend. Angela sighed, setting don her sketchpad and turning to face Brennan, hands on hips.

"In all honesty, Bren, I can't help. I mean, _I_ didn't sleep with the guy, did I? No, it's up to you. Did it feel _right_? Was it _fun_?" she enquired, a mischievous glint in her eye. "'Cos that's what really matters, you know. If you both enjoyed it, then, sweetie, _stuff_ professionalism and go for it!" she encouraged.

"Fun, yes, _meaningful_, no!" Brenna replied quickly.

"Well, aren't you always saying that a purely sexual relationship can be upheld without anything meaningful encumbering things?" retorted Angela, laughing internally at Brennan's self-destructive attitude. "Lighten up, sweetie."

"But... Booth's different," she protested softly, crossing one arm tightly across her chest and bringing her free, much-abused thumbnail to her mouth, chewing worriedly on the soft flesh surrounding it.

"Exactly." Angela waited silently for a response, then sighed again. "Do we need some girl-talk time?" she asked empathetically. Brennan tilted her head and nodded defeatedly. "Wow, this must be big; you haven't actually_ agreed_ to an impromptu girlie therapy session since the whole Sully situation," observed Angela, wincing as she saw something stirring in Brennan's eyes at the mention of Sully's name.

"Well, I got over him quickly enough," she shrugged. Angela rolled her eyes at the obvious lie.

"Yeah, whatever, Bren. Your office, or mine?"

"Mine, I guess," she said reluctantly, waiting as Angela carefully closed her sketchpad and tucked her pencil away in drawer.

"Oh, and sweetie? FYI, nobody's buying that Fred crap."

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**I know the chapter ending's kinda abrupt, but I figured it would be too long for an introductory chapter if I carried on much further. :) **

**Reviews are love, my love bunnies... I promise you, your efforts will be rewarded. ^^ Hey, isn't this the part where I break out the black cape, evil eye-glint and trademark 'MWUHAHAHAHA!'? :P**

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